


The First Step

by Lady_Avid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Start Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Avid/pseuds/Lady_Avid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two years.<br/>How much has John changed?<br/>Sherlock is unable to go into the restaurant to meet John for the first time in two years. He needs a little push to take that first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Step

**Author's Note:**

> The First Step  
> Lady_Avid  
> It’s been two years.  
> How much has John changed?  
> Sherlock is unable to go into the restaurant to meet John for the first time in two years. He needs a little push to take that first step.  
> This is a kinda headcannon of mine. Not this whole fic, but the whole John is gonna propose to Mary at the restaurant the day Sherlock shows up. Cause I can totally see that happening. John’s just like “you little shit, how dare you come back from the dead the day I was going to propose”  
> Apologies, this is not brit picked or beta’d. All mistakes are my own. In that same thought, if anyone would like to beta or brit pick or both for me, please let me know!

_He’s waited long enough._

_MH_

Sherlock does not get nervous easily. There is nothing more to nerves than a weak mind ill prepared for what was to come. Sherlock’s mind races so quickly that nothing could take him by surprise. He is always prepared; always in control. Throw anything at him and he can handle it.

Except John Watson.

Now, there is an exception.  

In all the times Sherlock has been nervous, John usually played a factor. Never before has he apologized for an experiment gone astray. That’s why they’re called experiments, sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t; you have to figure out the equation. But when one experiment caused John first degree burns on his left hand- Sherlock was nervous. When John said he was going out to the bar with Stanford, he’ll be back by 11, don’t look so pouty, Sherlock, and it was well past 12 and he still wasn’t back, and oh god, oh god, was he kidnapped? Sherlock was nervous.

Both times John had soothed his worries with calm words, a soft touch, and gently calling him an idiot with a smile on his face. He knew Sherlock’s worries were as rare as finding an alcoholic liver without cirrhosis. He was eventually angry for burning his hands and annoyed for texting him every five minutes for an hour when he ran into his old rugby buddies on the way out and stopped to chat. But John knew. He always knew.

It’s been two years.

How much as John changed?

Will he care to see that Sherlock has returned? Most likely. Mycroft and Molly had said John took his death hard. They were exceptionally close before the fall. Therefore, John will most likely care to see Sherlock return.

Will he be angry? John does have a bit of a temper as evidenced by multiple fights throughout their time together. John dislikes being kept in the dark and dislikes being helpless in a situation. Not being told that Sherlock’s been alive all these years will most certainly make him mad. Exceptionally mad. More mad than Sherlock’s ever seen him, probably.

Will he allow Sherlock back into his life? … Undetermined.

And if so will everything be the same as it was before? … Most likely not.

Two years is a very long time, he thinks.

His heart is palpitating, about to burst through his chest, and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears. Suddenly the cab feels too small and the air too thick to breathe. He feels like he’s crashing down from a high- nervous, sweaty, jittery, and ready to jump out of his own skin- desperate to not feel anything anymore and to get back to that blissful high.

He needs a cigarette.

The cab pulls up just outside of the restaurant. Here already? So soon? The cab driver turns around and waits for Sherlock to hand over the fee. But Sherlock is frozen. His mind, his great and powerful mind, is unable to move his arm, unable to breathe, unable to _think_ for the building that they just pulled up to contains John.

He has never felt so unprepared.  

With shaking hands, Sherlock fists a handful of notes from his coat pocket, clumsily shoves them at the driver, and hops out before he can get the change. The glass revolving doors of the restaurant seem like both the pearly white gates of Heaven and the entrance to Hell. People loiter around outside in nice, fancy getup, chatting away as if his world wasn’t about to begin and end with walking into that building. John is in there, he thinks. He’s closer to John now than he has been in the past two years. His legs lock into place. His mind is screaming to get some sort of plan together- think of something, anything. But his heart wants to run into that building, run into John’s arms, and beg for forgiveness.

He has never begged in his life but he’d be willing to make that change.

With a deep breath, Sherlock wills his legs to move, one heavy step after another. He reaches the revolving doors, ready to face whatever Heaven or Hell will bring. He pushes through the door and the world fades into the background.  Nothing exists except for his feet moving him forward, his heart pounding against his sternum, and the aisle ahead that will lead him to John.

Someone may have asked if he has a reservation, someone may have told him he cannot go into the back without checking in first, but he is unaware. He continues forward.

And then he sees him. Sitting alone at a table in a black suit and tie with his hair neatly in place and a bushy mustache resting above his lip. He licks his lips and picks up his glass of water. He takes a small sip and returns to reading the menu.

And then he _sees_ him. John Watson looks older; not the simple two years aging difference. But the hardships on him over the past two years are clearly showing on his body. The wrinkles and bags under his eyes, the stiff lip, the tension in his back, the ashen color in his hair, the cane resting against his thigh, the vacant look in his eyes as he absent mindedly scans the menu… He’s lost weight too. His jacket, one that Sherlock recognizes from a few years ago, is hanging loose off his one shoulder. His hand shakes as he flips the menu page.

He looks nothing like the John Watson he knows. He looks more like the broken man he first met in Bart’s so long ago.

And suddenly Sherlock’s fight or flight takes over and he’s retreating. Before his mind can properly scold him for being ridiculous, before he can steel his nerves against his foolish heart, the cool air is slapping him in the face and he realizes he’s outside.

The tremors in his hands are much worse than before. He feels the shakiness moving up into his arms and soon his whole body will shake. Just one won’t hurt, he thinks as he skids around the corner of the restaurant into a darkened alleyway. There’s a woman present in nice clothing. She glances at him then returns to her own cigarette. Just one to calm his nerves, he thinks as he reaches into his coat pocket.

His pockets are empty.

How? He never leaves without his cigarettes. The two years on the run caused a relapse into his nicotine addiction and Sherlock grew accustomed to having the box in his left pocket, always the left pocket. Where could they have gone?

Oh. The cab ride. His quick, hasty attempts to hand the money over to the cabbie and to get out of the car. His trembling hands as he reached into his pocket and pulled out whatever he could get his hands on. He must have knocked it out of his pocket or accidently thrown it at the cabbie.

Sherlock pats himself down anyway. He knows that he’d never put his cigarettes anywhere but his left coat pocket but he’s so desperate for a drag… They have to be here somewhere!

“You need a smoke?”

Sherlock swirls around. The woman in the nice clothing smiles gently at him as if she knows all too well the chaos not having a cigarette. In her outstretched hand is a box of Molton’s. He notices they’re not low tar.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, reaching for one. She wordlessly offers her lighter. He lights up and takes a long drag. The smoke fills his lungs, his sinuses, and clears his head. He releases slowly and the tension leaves his body with the smoke up into the cool winter air.

“Nervous?” the woman asks politely.

 “Hardly one to talk about nerves,” he says coolly, eyeing her up and down, out of the corner of his eye. “Look at you. Dressed up rather nice, hair done, make up in place. Yet hiding in the alleyway smoking a cigarette. Maybe you chain smoke but you don’t. There is no yellow discoloration on your fingertips. I noticed your sighs in between drags. You’re trying to calm yourself down. You don’t smoke too often but you’re nervous about tonight so you popped into the alleyway to calm yourself down. You’re embarrassed about your smoking and you’re trying to quit evidenced by the fact that you’re hiding in an alleyway instead of in front of the restaurant at their smoking post like everyone else.

“Now why are you nervous? You’re at a fancy restaurant, in fancy clothing. No expensive labels, budget clothing put together in a nice way to make you look like you’re more dressed up than you actually are. This is not your sort of scene. So this is a special night. First date? Probably not since this restaurant is a little too upscale for a first date unless you’re dating a rich snob who likes to show off but judging by your clothes, you’re probably not impressed by a flash of money so that’s a no. Clearly, not a first date. Anniversary maybe? But why are you nervous? Maybe you want to break up with him. You seem like a decent person, offering a stranger in an alleyway one of your last cigarettes; you wouldn’t let someone buy you an expensive dinner just to break up with them. You’d end it beforehand. But what else could it be? Maybe… a proposal?”

The woman blinks at him for a few seconds and Sherlock knows he’s pushed too far. He’s always pushing too far. She was kind enough to offer him a cigarette and make small talk then he jumped down her throat.

“That was…” Sherlock waits for it. “Brilliant!”

“… You think so?”

“Yes, completely! You look shocked.”

“Only one person has ever said that to me.”

“Just one? Well, I don’t care what anyone else says; I think that was bloody well brilliant.”

“Did I get anything wrong?”

“Nothing really important. I’m not trying to quit smoking. I really should but I rather like to smoke and to hell with lung cancer!” she laughs. “Oh god, I really should though. I just came back here because I didn’t want my boyfriend to see that I was here. He thinks I’m running behind.”

“Oh, there’s always something I miss.”

“But like I said, nothing important, right on all other accounts. My boyfriend’s not a very good at lying or keeping secrets. He gets this look on his face like he’s trying not to say something. His face scrunches up during silences and I just knew he was planning something. I didn’t know what until one day I borrowed his laptop and found a recent tab on engagement rings.”

“You’re nervous. Do you not want to marry him?”

“Oh gosh, of course I do! He’s a fantastic, fantastic man. Really just the best thing that’s ever happened in my life and I can’t be thankful enough that I have him in my life. However…” she sighs and takes a long drag of her cigarette. She pauses, staring up at the night sky and releases slowly. “I’m not sure if he’s really ready. He believes he is, or else he wouldn’t be proposing, but I know him better than that. He’s been hurt, really hurt, in the past and he’s desperate to move on. Part of me wonders if our relationship started off as a stepping stone for him. The other part of me thinks, hopes really, that it was a genuine interest to be in a relationship. Now, things are different, I don’t question whether he loves me or not it’s just… do I have his whole heart? Is he really one hundred percent committed to me and only me?”

“You think he still loves his old girlfriend?”

She snorts, “Something like that. I know it still hurts him. And I just want to make sure he’s not going to end up hurting me in the process.”

“Is the girlfriend still around?”

“No, died.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. She’s dead, he’ll move on eventually. Done.”

She laughs, “Did anyone ever tell you that you suck at comforting people?”

Sherlock frowns, “Was that not right?”

“In a very minimalist way, you were right. However, human emotion is so much more than “getting over it.” There’s guilt, regret, sorrow, anger… There’s so much more hidden inside of him that I can’t see, that he doesn’t tell me. I’m not sure he’ll ever truly get over it.”

“Oh…”

“Alright, Mr. Spock, enough about me. Why don’t you tell me why you sprinted into this nice little alleyway of ours in a frantic need for a ciggie?”

“I…”

“And don’t you dare say you didn’t. I may not be as good as reading people as you are but I’m a teacher. I know a thing or two about seeing past what people are trying to hide.”

Sherlock slumps against the wall and puts the cigarette to his lips. Before he can think of why he’s willing to spill his story to a stranger, he’s talking, “I’m trying to make amends. I wanted to save my friend but in order to do so I had to lie and I had to destroy myself in his eyes. But now that he’s safe, I want him back. I want him to know what I did and why it was necessary. I’m not sure if he’s going to listen. I saw him in there and he looks so different and it’s my fault. So I…”

“Got nervous and ran out here?” she offers. Sherlock nods. “Hey, you saved him, did you not? That’s not something to dismiss so easily. He’s gonna be pissed, yeah, but he’ll come around. You just have to explain yourself. …He must really be worth it, huh?”

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself, “Yeah, he is.”

She sees this and nudges him with a grin, “You love him?”

“More than anything.”

She grins wider, “Then what are you waiting for? Go get him!”

“And you?” he asks, turning back to her. “You said before your boyfriend was the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Are you willing to risk heart break for him?”

“Oh, yes,” she drops her cigarette on the floor and snuffs it out with the toe of her black sensible heels. “Shall we take that first step together?” Grinning for the first time in a while, Sherlock tosses his cigarette as well and holds out his arm for her. She links her arm with his and they walk out of the alleyway.  “Here we are spilling our life stories and I don’t even know your name. I'm Mary Morstan.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” She gasps and his head snaps down to see her face. She’s biting her lip, trying to school her surprise. “You recognize my name?”

She smiles but it’s different. There’s conflict written all over her features. “I used to read the blog about you. I was devastated to hear of your passing.”

“As you can see, it was faked.”

“And the one you’re going to apologize to- John Watson? The blogger?”

“Yes.”

“So the rumors of you two were true?”

“Tsk, rumors. No, just that. I didn’t come to realization of my feelings until I was forced away from him.”

“And…” she pauses. “And he for you?”

“I am unsure. Even if he did hold something for me two years ago, there is a good chance it’s gone now.”

They push through the glass revolving doors that once seemed so menacing and now don’t seem so terrifying with Mary besides him. “Well,” she mutters, “you might be surprised.” 


End file.
